


Purple Umbrella

by SkyHighDisco



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Friendship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy Clarkson too, Mentions of poisoning, Richard Hammond needs a hug, Willow Hammond does big brain time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Follow-up toGrey Ship. James gets poisoned and ends up in a maladaptive coma. What was going on from Jeremy and Richard's perspective in the meantime?
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & Richard Hammond, Richard Hammond & Willow Hammond, Sarah Frater/James May
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Purple Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> As suggested by a guest. You know who you are. Thank you. <3
> 
> Not yet sure how I feel about this.
> 
> Oh, and after watching _The Blacklist_ , James Spader became my second favorite James in the world. Middle-aged balding guy with a hat and a very intimidating voice. Wasn’t difficult to draw inspiration. Hands down, one of the best actors out there.

The smell of smoke and music are intertwining in an odd synesthetic dance. James can barely tell the difference. Dragging from his own fag helps orientation a little. His eyes sting and he thinks the music floating around the pub like a jellyfish is Roy Brown.

It’s rare for him to be alone in the pub. Alone in sense there is no obnoxious, interrupting, irritating little midget and an equally irritating, fat, moronic ape. It’s a nice change to say the least. Not feeling obligated to listen to two bellends arguing, much less having to suffer through their insults.

He had just finished conversing with a really nice middle-aged bloke with whom he had thoroughly enjoyed small talk, even as he couldn’t figure the sunglasses game. Apparently, he wasn’t from around. But he was decent. Well-mannered. Plus he bought him gin. Too bad he didn’t stick for long.

“I hope you are getting close”, James overhears a conversation to his left. It wasn’t eavesdropping. Just that there weren’t many other people in the pub, being a Wednesday evening, and those who were have either been lonesome, or tried to avoid company, like him.

“You think they’ll catch him?”

“No. They’ll only catch him if he wants to be caught”, grumbles the first man morosely, a thick cigarillo eliciting smoke between his two fingers. From the corner of his eye, James sees he doesn’t look too happy, either. “And pray to whatever you believe in it doesn’t happen.”

“But they picked some activity?” asks another man, considerably younger than the first one.

“Nah, that was 2017 Switzerland. Barely detectable. Not enough for us to triangulate him.”

James had experiences of his own of 2017 Switzerland, which would make for a conversation material, but he decides to stick to listening for now.

“Are there any good news?”

“Yes. Three months ago there was a strong pulse on the outskirts of Sevilla. Enough to cause some serious disturbance. A Lockstep was sent to investigate.” The man inhales his cigarillo deeply. “He isn’t flawless. However skilful, he can only appear in this corporeal plane in one of two terrestrial forms. One is a moth. The other you have already met.”

Corporeal plane? Terrestrial form? Who says things like that?

“Person wearing grey with a purple umbrella.” A confirmation, not a question. “Obscure eyes.”

“Mm-hm. Bastard’s pulling something big. Word is, in Italy. But that’s not the most interesting part.”

“Target?”

“Yeah. You’ll never guess who...”

Artists? Theatre actors? Movie writers? Conmen? People speaking in codes? Actual spies? MI6?

Whatever it is, James is enjoying it — because this was intelligent talk, something he isn’t exactly facing on daily basis — even as he isn’t openly taking part in it, much less that he understands it. But it did well to soothe his nerves. If it wasn’t for these re-charging sessions, he’d be toast, having to constantly be facing and conversing with a certain pair of morons. And he wasn’t young enough to deal with it as well as he had in the beginning anymore.

Mind hazy, he finishes his last cigarette, realizing he had zoned out and didn’t actually hear who it was two mystery blokes were talking about. He looks over, but they aren’t there anymore.

Well, he should clear off himself. 

Tomorrow is Thursday after all.

* * *

Jeremy extends his left arm out and folds it back to check his watch, eyes rolling dramatically through the ceiling. Coffee remains on his tongue lost all the magic of the morning.

“Stop that”, he hears Richard say from his desk. Looks over. Richard hasn’t even looked away from the laptop screen. How unfair that they’re practically in each other’s heads.

“He should’ve been here twenty minutes ago”, complains Jeremy. “How can you get lost in a city you live in?”

“London is a big place, even for people who live in it.”

“Oh, shut up, country boy, everything is big to you”, Jeremy dismisses and throws a crumpled piece of paper at Richard’s head.

A hand reaches out and catches the projectile mid-air. Richard’s eyes never leave the screen.

Completely unfair.

“Prick”, says Jeremy.

“He’ll be here, Jeremy. You’ll see, in about ten seconds he’s going to walk through that door and then you can throw your papers at _him_.”

Jeremy hated Richard’s reasoning-with-a-sulky-child voice, but he was right. He can lash out on Slow when he gets here. If. Maybe he’s just given up at this point and has been in a pub for the past twenty minutes. Jeremy entertains himself by conjuring up jibes he is going to be flinging at James for the rest of the day.

Richard was right. Someone does walk in ten seconds later. But it isn’t James.

It’s Andy.

And one look at his face is enough to steal every insult out of Jeremy’s mouth.

“Where is he?” Jeremy asks, lips turning dry.

Wide-eyed, labour-breathing Andy swallows. “Hospital. They found him unconscious at the wheel on A201. Sarah called me. She’s already on her way there.”

Andy doesn’t even finish and Jeremy is already on his feet, putting on the coat and Richard is dashing out the doorway.

Thank heavens it’s not rush hour.

* * *

Thank heavens it’s not rush hour.

They had stabbed an antidote injection right in his heart already in the back of the ambulance. If they hadn’t, if they’d reached his car only minutes later, he’d be dead.

But given how James isn’t exactly a perfectly healthy individual, it’s still been tight.

His heart had stopped three times by the time the van had reached the hospital.

He had a paramedic straddling him, pumping at his chest the whole time. The guy had sprained his wrist trying to keep James alive.

They don’t stop even after rushing him into an ER, a windowless, sterile room with a windowless door.

Left standing alone outside, Sarah’s stomach turns into a black hole, devouring and churning in on itself.

* * *

Richard, Jeremy and Andy arrive only twenty minutes later, and given the size of London, that is one hell of a time. Mindy has been informed and said she’ll be right there.

As soon as Sarah notices them, Jeremy has an armful of a shaky woman. Not crying, but already red-eyed. That boat has sailed. 

“Tell me”, breathes Jeremy into her hair, voice tight and shaky.

Sarah nods her head into Jeremy’s chest.

Richard collapses onto the nearest chair, wheezing out a suppressed breath and a duo of tears spill out of his eyes, covering his face with both hands. Relief.

Sarah steps back, looking at the three men. “They don’t tell me anything. They keep running in and out of the room shouting, but nobody stops for anything.”

That’s good. Movement is good. If they walk out hunched over with resolute faces, that’s when Jeremy will start to scream.

“He’s going to be alright”, Jeremy tells her, expressing his clearness just as much for her as for himself. “Alright?”

Sarah doesn’t answer. She’s looking back towards the ER door. Tense like a guitar string. Quiet.

Fretting.

* * *

“We managed to stabilize him, but honestly, we don’t know what happens next. We couldn’t apply activated charcoal because there was nothing in his stomach. Whatever it is, it’s been dormant for hours while it was spreading around his body before attacking his nerve system.”

“What did you find?”, Jeremy.

“We’re not sure. Could be an experimental drug. The only familiar substances we managed to detect were ketamine, lithium and small traces of mercury.”

“Jesus Christ”, Richard.

“There’s a lot of it altogether. We put him on dimercaprol and naloxone, but we had to put him in an induced coma in order to stop possible spreading or another cardiac arrest. If he suffers another one, we won’t be able to save him.”

“Can we see him?”, Sarah.

“Of course.”

* * *

Mindy comes when Andy takes his leave as soon as he laid his eyes on James and was convinced he was alive; he says errands, but Jeremy knows him better. The longer he stays here, the more he’ll freak out. Not on the outside, he’s far too intelligent for that. But it will crumble him from the inside like aluminum foil. The pesticide smell of the white, dehydrated hospital walls won’t help in the slightest. Jeremy promises to keep him updated.

Another shorter figure tags alongside wild-haired Mrs. Hammond, looking beside herself. Long brown hair. Big dark eyes.

Willow.

She runs up to Richard at an impressive speed engined by utter panic and her father holds her tight to himself.

He looks over his youngest daughter’s head, murmuring automatic consolations, meeting his wife’s eyes, who, for once, isn’t forced to see her husband in that bed.

Doesn’t make it any less easy. They are all family.

* * *

James looks eerie. Artificial. Like a mannequin made all wrong.

The mask covering his face isn’t enough to cover how pale he is or how terrifyingly ashen his skin is. His chest pulsing steadily is their only compass to navigate sanity. 

Sarah sticks to the chair by his side all day. The others can barely make her to drink water.

Richard is glad. Focusing on her and reassuring Willow, bringing others cheap, insipid machine coffee keeps his mind occupied. It’s good. It’s keeping him from freaking out. When there is nothing left for him to do, he breaths heavily and closes and opens his fingers, minding that he’s not in the immediate vicinity of others at the same time.

Jeremy is only slightly better. He’s sitting there, on James’ other side with a hand across his mouth, unconsciously synchronizing his breathing with his friend’s.

Up, down.

Up, down.

_He’s alive. Just follow him, and he will follow you. Up, down._

Nobody talks. The only communication is reduced to light touches here and there and smiles of thanks and more and more empty plastic cups piling in the rubbish bin.

* * *

“We’re gonna go”, Mindy says to her husband, shouldering her bag. It’s nearing midnight. She looks exhausted, not remotely as close as Richard, but he knows she cannot do much except piling up the room that is already full. She insists he call her if anything new happens.

“Okay”, Richard kisses her on the lips, briefly, softly, and tiredly.

“Come on”, Mindy calls to their daughter.

“No. I’m staying”, Willow snaps, heels propped up against the edge of the seat.

“No, you have school tomorrow”, rebukes Richard gently.

“Fuck school”, she nearly stomps her foot, sharp bite echoing the hallway.

“Willow—”

“Since when has it become more important than Uncle James?” she stubbornly insists, stamped to a hard plastic chair of the hallway. Her eyes, determined and bloodshot from all the tears she must’ve took from Richard because there were so many.

From determined, they quickly melt into pleading. “Please, Daddy. I want to be here when he wakes up… please. If he doesn’t until Monday, I’ll leave, I promise.”

Something about resignation in Willow’s voice tugs painfully at Richard’s heart mixing with the meaning of her words. _‘If he doesn’t until Monday…’_

He opens his mouth, but Mindy already stoops down to kiss the top of her head. “Call if you need me.”

Willow hugs the living daylights out of her, but it’s just fear in the grip, one no power of Earth can sustain.

* * *

The next morning sky is gone under a downpour. Like it, too, is stressing over the suspense of James’ condition.

Nobody slept much. Jeremy and Richard managed to pull maybe an hour in shifts, but that was it.

Willow manages to tear Sarah away from the chair and make her go to hospital canteen for breakfast with her. It seemed to sprite back some life in the older woman’s eyes. Something Jeremy was incredibly grateful for about his little niece.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?” Richard is whispering from Sarah’s sitting spot, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, shy from James’ still forearm pierced with infusion. He is rocking back and forth slightly, eyes closed and fingers intertwined against his lips in a pseudo-prayer. “Hmm? Has it occurred to you yet how important you are? All this knotted bullcrap about efficiency of the show being about us being arseholes… You’re an arsehole because you’re the one who keeps saying it. Over and over. If you tell me you believe in it as well, I am going to punch your lights out.”

Jeremy dully watches. A clock is ticking on the opposite wall in the room and the machine is beeping, giving rhythm to Richard’s words which he refuses to follow. Metronomic beating is chaotic to freedom in all ways, its technical enclosed prism reserved for other, trivial points.

“Fight, you old bastard. We cannot do this without you. Don’t you dare. If you don’t wake up, I won’t give you my E-type. You’ve been listed as a candidate until now, but if you fuck this up, there won’t be a… you won’t…”

He trails off when his voice turns wobbly and Jeremy closes his eyes to fight against the torrent that can beat the one raging outside.

Jeremy knows what Richard is doing. It’s his way of venting, jabbering on about things that peeve him, nit-picking and twisting things around, blaming and pointing fingers and being generally pissy.

There’s a strange sort of intimacy in his one-way dialogue. Jeremy doesn’t feel that he belongs in that cube. It’s separating him away like chairs did in Top Gear studio. It’s something shared between James and Richard’s joined heads and conspiratorial whispers while Jeremy is having a questioning shootout with a guest.

“Just… come back to us, you cockface… You blithering idiot… Why did you have to go alone? We never go alone. You should have waited for us… Should’ve… We go together or not at all, I don’t care how annoyed or cross you were… You… You…”

The scraping of chair legs is a volcanic eruption in Jeremy’s ears and he jumps when Richard storms out of the room. He eyes James, who is still unconvincingly not-dead, unmoving, but he stands up more carefully nevertheless and follows his friend.

He finds him in the hallway, staring into the rain with a hand across his mouth. Keeping himself from crying, barricading all exits with everything he has, physical and not.

“He’ll be fine, Richard”, Jeremy tries.

“Yeah, you keep saying that. You know that”, Richard hisses, crossing his arms. His natural defence is anger. “This isn’t one of our shows, Jeremy. There are no hundreds of health-and-safety papers to sign or a million ‘are you sure’-s. This isn’t in a script. There is no script here, he’s over there because this is real.”

“How do you think _we_ felt, Rich?” Jeremy counters, blue fire igniting within his iris. “Both times. You don’t get to accuse me or talk about what’s real or not to _me_. James and I know that better than you. We’ve been _right_ here”, Jeremy’s finger points frustratingly at the floor. “Both times”, he repeats. “But here you are, in spite of everything. And you are alright enough to be angry. So will he be. And let me tell you right now, he will have a _fantastic_ time rubbing it in your face.”

Richard only stares at first, taken aback by the audacity of this man to pull out _that_ card, to drag him into such a bold face-off. He mouths to counterattack when he recollects himself to fuel his frustration even more.

“Gentlemen!”

Both men turn their heads, startled by the intrusion of a voice shattering the silence of the corridor.

It’s not Sarah or Willow. It isn’t Mindy or Andy. It’s an unfamiliar balding man in a long coat and belonging fedora, and, strangely, a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Scotland Yard”, says the man, flashing them the belonging badge attached to a wallet in one hand, but only just so they can recognize it before pocketing it to the inside of the coat. “Here to ask you a few questions.”

“Why is the Yard here?” asks Richard, puzzled.

“Because Mr. May’s blood results happened to pop on our screens. They showed us an interesting mix of mercury, lithium and ketamine. And how. Wouldn’t get less in him if he drank them directly from the bottle.”

Bottle?

“He went to the pub alone last night”, says Jeremy without even being asked a proper question, nearly spluttering. Even twenty-four hours later, the adrenaline was still too high.

“Which one?”

“We don’t know”, says Richard flatly. “He just left. Barely said goodbye.”

“And that wasn’t strange for him?”

“No, he does that when it’s a sign he’s pissed and wants to get properly pissed alone”, says Jeremy, making an automatic pun that all three quietly acknowledged.

“Who called the Yard?” Richard wanted to know.

“When police were called upon Mr. May’s finding, they contacted their chief supervisor who contacted us”, the man explains, shifting slightly on his heels. “Toxicology results were sent to us directly after being analysed.”

“An attempted murder? On James?” spits Richard, still angry.

“World is getting smaller”, says the detective, putting one hand in a coat pocket. “You either shrink with it or think outside the box.”

“What?”

“Any ideas who could’ve done this?”

Jeremy _tsk_ -s cynically. “We are faced with constant criticism, agent. Sometimes it escalates to threats, but those are mostly virtual. You know, instagram, twitter, youtube comments. Easily ignorable, but that’s all they ever were. Empty threats. But… no. Nothing specific or worth mentioning. Compared to most public personas, I like to think we are pretty well embraced by the world. And for reasons that still escape my mind, of the three of us, James is the most likable to people.”

“Did he mention any oddities? If someone was following him perhaps?”

“No. Frankly, I don’t think he’d notice if someone did. He’s unobservant like that”, he says in a tone that is almost apologetic.

“Mmm”, the Yard agent hums. Jeremy can’t see behind the sunglasses, but he bets they are going from one man to another. “And why do I have a feeling he is the only one who knows what happened here?”

Jeremy and Richard wordlessly stare. Air suddenly becomes heavy like particles gained new weight.

”Do you know how a pack of dogs differs from a pack of wolves?” the Agent begins in a voice that was much lower now. It sounded threatening in a way that sprouted goosebumps along Richard’s arms. “The weak are either left behind or killed off. The hierarchy in a dog pack composed of former domestic animals is a lot different than their wild cousins with much more fundamental sense of aggrupation.”

“How dare you—”, Richard bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself, closes his eyes and takes one deep breath, minutely circling his neck. A pulsing vein on his temple subsides as he reopens them. “You’re actually suggesting we did it.”

“Fucking come on”, Jeremy runs his hands through his thin curls, turning around.

“It’s my job to question every probability”, the man explains and the passiveness is in his voice makes him very punchable. “I’m sure you know that.”

“We weren’t even there. We _should’ve_ been there”, insists Richard, then catches himself. “If we were, he wouldn’t be here now.”

“I don’t get paid for hypothetical stabbing in the dark, Mr. Hammond. My line of work only admits facts. Otherwise there’d be a lot more innocent people in prison. Let’s circle a little closer. Did he have a fight with anyone?”

“There isn’t a day James doesn’t have a fight”, says Jeremy automatically, realizing he’s getting annoyed by this interrogation that seemed more and more pointless. “He practically invites them. That’s how he is. He loves an argument. He insists on it.”

“I believe you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Clarkson”, says the agent, producing a phone from his pocket where one of his hands resided, ducking his head to look at the screen. The movement would offer a view beyond the ridge of the sunglasses, but a firm shadow from the hat is still covering them loyally. “Surely you know each other that well. Within your little circle; the workplace, the colleagues, the lot. But, you are still you. You have your own little hints that nobody else in the world will ever figure out. Your jokes are still yours. Scattered papers in the night. Cringe at the crunching sound of freshly fallen snow. Poetry in the dark, doors without keyholes, shattered pillars of reticence. Astigmatism, approaching lights, so, so close…”

Richard freezes then because for a moment he swore the agent’s voice has flown into James’; an auditory mixture composed directly from James’ gentle vocal box. He jerks his head up, and realizes he’s dozed off in a strange involuntary manner, soft and tender and homey and familiar like honey and feathers. He looks around confounded for a second, blinking profusely to shake this strange feeling of lost control.

Next to him, Jeremy clears his throat. “I think we’re done here”, he decides; it’s a calm, but firm declaration that doesn’t take a no for an answer, and whenever it surfaces, impossible in its seriousness, Richard is afraid to even attempt it. “We don’t have to say anything. You don’t have a warrant for an arrest, or you’d be flashing it out already. You want to pull our leg, you can talk to my lawyer.” 

The man stares at him for the amount of time that would be considered awkward if another second passes, but before it happens, he smiles slightly and scratches his eyebrow, right above the edge of the sunglasses, and turns the gesture into a pointing index finger. “You have a point. Words of a man who isn’t unfamiliar with this situation.”

Richard’s exchange of glances between the man he knew for more than a decade and the man he’d known for ten minutes gives him away.

“Aah, you don’t know”, the man’s face gets frozen in an open-mouthed grin. “I guess I was wrong, then. You don’t know each other _that_ well.”

Richard suppresses a shiver. This feels way too personal. Way, way too out of comfort zone. Richard has never been interrogated, but he was fairly sure this isn’t how it was supposed to go. Real questions are supposed to be basic, yes-or-no, where, what, when and how. He isn’t supposed to feel like his soul is being dissected into each its separate bit.

“But allow me only to ask you this”, the man says with a tone of finality. “If James May is laying in that bed now fighting for his life — how confident will you be with lifting another glass ever in your life?”

Richard cannot bear it anymore; he shudders uncontrollably.

“Food for thought!” the agent tosses over his shoulder. And when did he manage to walk away that far?

* * *

In the afternoon, after a small lunch with no real appetite, Richard and Willow go for a walk to get some fresh air. Jeremy almost joins them, but he doesn’t want to leave Sarah alone. It’s the last thing James would’ve wanted her to be.

After he sees the pair out, he returns back inside, nearly losing his cool by himself in the elevator.

The entire floor is eerily quiet compared to when they had just arrived. Strokes of quiet conversation through closed doors, no staff brushing their way past him in the hallway.

Which is probably why he hears the melody when he does.

It is incredibly soft and sweet. Like gentle fingers of a cooing mother. Sounds of the lake beneath the tough ice crust still and pure like glass. A private little world. Jeremy’s muscles melt. Tension evaporates out of him like dew. He traces its silky string to James’ room and quietly peeks around the corner.

Sarah sits in the usual spot, one leg crossed over another. Absentmindedly stares at the object in her extended hand, the source of the gentle music; a round, beautifully decorated brass music box. And from it, the chiming waltz-swung melody that effortlessly reverts Jeremy back to being a child.

He leans against the doorway and isn’t sure what to say. Doesn’t really want to speak. Just listening and watching the sight is enough. He is perfectly fine with staying here until he dies.

Sarah, though, does it for him.

“Dvořák, Serenade, second movement”, she says softly. “It’s our song. Stupidly immature to say, I know, but it played the first time we met in the London Palladium.”

She quietly laughs; it's a humourless huff, really, and she looks outside to the pouring weather. “The first thing he ever said to me was a complaint at how weird and unorthodox it is to start something in C-sharp minor when the sharp signs behind the keys say F-sharp minor. Then he turned to look at me and realized I wasn’t his friend. He was sitting to his other side.”

Jeremy exhaled a brief laugh. Trust James to be lost while sitting in a chair.

“I remember looking at him in that disheveled old shirt with a hair that was more a nest — and jeans. He showed up to a classical performance in an un-ironed plaid button-up and old jeans. He tried to apologize, but I said ‘you think Dvořák didn’t know what he was doing?’ He said, ‘Does anybody really know what they’re doing? I just got fired today again and my friend here had to take me to this concert to clear my mind, but it obviously doesn’t work because I’m still so confused that I talked to you instead of him by accident.’

I tried to explain to him what the composer meant, but he wouldn’t have it. We literally argued through the entire concert. Annoyed the hell out of people. We argued when we went outside, then he gave me his phone number and he called me right after coming back home and we argued for three more hours. At this point it was about whatever we could think of. And then we reached a simple conclusion that we agree to disagree.

There was on and off contact for a while. Sometimes we wouldn’t hear from each other for weeks. Job was getting in the way constantly. James spent five times less time with me than he did with you two. Part of it is my fault. My business includes travel as well. People are right to ask how we managed to last that long together, I don’t even know myself. Sometimes I wondered if we were even ‘we’. Probably because both of us took everything so casually all the time.”

A nostalgic smile adorned Sarah’s face. “And then came that day. I was in Prague. It was… 2002, 2003, I can’t exactly remember. I came back to the hotel room late, exhausted. It was a terribly long performance… And there it was, on a commode. A small ornate golden box with a fancy bow and a note. In a box, this. On paper, a scribble. It said, ‘You were right. It’s mixolydian.’

On the other side, squintably smaller, ‘Now I’m always with you.’

He was there, in Czechia. Bought a souvenir, broke into my hotel room, left it there and went back to England. No questions, no answers.

I canceled my flight just so spend another day wandering around Prague to find a shop he bought it from. I barely found it. Never would have if I hadn’t seen a random man with a big flashy cello case on his back. He showed me to some backbone music shop that sold these gorgeous unique brass chain music boxes. The man at a counter says, ‘Oh, there was an English guy just like you here yesterday. He looked exhausted and beside himself. He asked for just the thing you have in your hand.’”

Sarah’s thumb ghosts weakly over the circular rim of the miniature instrument. “It was the first and last time he’s been romantic, actually. But I knew right then that the ‘we’ was real.”

Jeremy can just stand there feeling pointless and unnecessary. And excess that is invading their private bubble despite James being unconscious. Second time that day he’s felt useless and misplaced.

She doesn’t mention it, but Jeremy knows. This only served as confirmation. James owns a music box of his own, only Jeremy had never acknowledged it because James was more furtive than Jeremy’s curiosity could catch up. On their trips and adventures during stops, James would sometimes walk away for some lone time away from the campfires. When Jeremy would go look for him, he thought he would hear the faintest melody before finding him and calling out his presence. It’d startle James as it would startle every reasonable person, but Jeremy cannot help but notice now that the music would vanish into thin air like an unanswered question every time. One that Jeremy certainly never bothered to ask. Only cared about Captain Slow hauling his arse back to the site so they could set up camp and get pissed.

“You mean the world to him”, Jeremy says gently.

Sarah’s smile is exhausted, but genuine, pointed at the box. “So do you two.”

She closes the lid. The music dies.

* * *

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“I think we both did one way or another, Rich.”

“Jeremy, how could we let this happen? Of all times, why – why now? _How_ now? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Richard, you haven’t slept a wink, you’re maundering.”

“Am I? I want them on my plate, Jeremy. I want whoever did this crucified.”

“Daddy?”

“Not now, Willow”, Richard gently dismisses her. “Look, I won’t stand down. We should’ve never left him alone last night. We should’ve been with him. I’ll never let it slide in my life. There can’t be only two of us, there just can’t. That’s not how it works. We have three faces and twelve limbs, that’s who we are, Jeremy.”

“Show me the time machine that can solve this, and I’ll jump in right after you”, Jeremy bites back, pointing indefinitely in the direction of the window. “Nobody could’ve known this. It’s one thing when you fling yourself downhill in a supercar, that one’s on you. It is, I’m sorry. But this? It could’ve easily been you, or me, or all three of us. It wasn’t. It was just James. And you aren’t helping anyone.”

“Daddy?”

“Be right there, love, hold on. I’m not talking about that, Jeremy, I’m talking about right now. I want bullseye on the bastard. And don’t suddenly go all reasoning on me because I know you want the same. Stop acting like this is something James had coming. There is no coincidence and I won’t have it.”

“Daddy… should Uncle James be doing this?”

Jeremy and Richard’s heads tear away from the frothing bridge of their argument and towards the hospital bed.

James is still completely still save for his steadily automatically rising and falling chest.

And an index finger of his left hand, thumping gently against the bed’s surface.

* * *

They try everything. They talk to him, shake him gently enough to not accidentally pull out any infusions, they prod him, touch him, Jeremy even attempts a crude joke. Nothing works.

The doctors that come to check him over don’t openly express their confusion, but others clearly see it there, behind their pupils, in those dark pits of the attending doctor who is resting a cold stethoscope against James’ chest and hides his bewilderment behind poorly composed excuse disguised as factual punctuation.

 _It’s not supposed to happen. Comatose means comatose. His finger has_ no business moving _._

But it does. It keeps on insistently tapping irregular patterns, taunting the medical man’s imprinted dogma and when Willow captures it, even resists her grip.

The medical professionals don’t know what to make of it.

The unprofessionals even less so.

* * *

Day turns to night and James’ finger is still restless. Richard thinks his own would already get sprained, but he doesn’t know what to do to help. He hated feeling so helpless. Richard wonders if James felt the same when their roles were reversed.

It feels horrible. Richard vowed never to repeat any of that again, just as long as he never has to feel like this again. Not just for Mindy and the girls.

Remembering Switzerland, he wonders if he has as much skill as James at smuggling gin into the hospital. He wanted James to wake up to something pleasant. Like Richard did after his last crash with smiling James by his side and a gentle ‘you sodding, lucky pillock’ on his lips.

Sarah is finally asleep in a two-seater, refusing to leave the room, especially when she’s unconscious. Willow has turned into a sort of woodpecker/owl hybrid who refuses to sleep, constantly lingering nearby, being all jumpy and cranky when she wasn’t. Such is the case now as she sits in a chair by the bed, tapping the bottom of a pencil against the lips, watching James’ finger like a hawk.

Richard sits by her side, snaking a hand around her shoulders and resting his temple against hers. “Go and get some sleep, love. It’s late.”

Willow sighs. The fatigue is so desperately prominent in her eyes, but concern is keeping them wide open. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

Richard releases a sympathetic hum and wraps both arms around her smaller form. What his two girls reduced him to, how they flipped him around like an ace kicker in _Texas Hold’em_ , it’s a miracle he still cannot decipher. He rests his cheek on top of her head and rocks them both slightly. “Well, why doesn’t Captain Speedy take a break and I’ll take over? Uncle James will be fine. Promise.”

Willow smiles weekly at the nickname James used from when she was in diapers, feigning not being able to catch her every time they’d play a game of chase. James still privately, affectionately likes to use it, something that makes Willow feel like a child all over again.

She doesn’t attempt to move. Richard looks down at a small paper pressed in her lap by one hand. “What’s that you got?”

She looks down. “Well… I’ve been following his finger tapping. And they seemed more than random. There’s always five varied taps and then a small break. So I googled Morse code. And it worked”, she gives it to him.

Richard squints in half-darkness at the scribbled sequence.

 **21** **·** **16** **·16·5·18·1·13·2·5·18·12·21·12·12**

“That’s a full cycle. Then he repeats it. To the beat”, Willow says meekly, twisting her head to look up at her father. “Does that mean anything?”

Richard observes the series of numbers, trying to fathom what to make of them, but very quickly minutely shakes his head, heavy with fatigue. “I don’t know, sweetheart”, he kisses her forehead, gently nudging her by the shoulder out of the watcher’s spot. “Good job. Now get some sleep, come on. Go find Uncle Jeremy.”

She thankfully leaves and Richard drops the mask, frowning at James in anxious and silent prayer. 

“What are you telling us, James?”

* * *

It’s on the third day that the medical staff decide that he’s been fuelled enough with antidotes and he can breathe on his own now.

It is also when his finger goes limp, killing the circle of frenzy it's been maniacally tapping.

He did it. The worst part was finally over.

He will be perfectly fine in a day or two. They only have to wait for him to wake up on his own.

The tension is gone.

And for the first time in three days, Sarah’s sigh is followed by a genuine smile of relief. Richard doesn’t care anymore – he’s gone to buy gin as soon as he’s heard the news.

“Hear that?” Jeremy mutters to Willow who is sunk against his side, knees up to her chest. “He’ll be fine.”

Her head languishes exhaustedly on his shoulder, but she is smiling when they tell them hard cheese is over with; a comparison James would appreciate. The size difference between the two is comical. “Thank God.”

“What did I tell you? Didn’t I say that third day’s the charm? And what do you know — I’m always right, am I not?”

“Your statement and luck just happened to line up”, Willow cheekily counters.

“Just say yes, Uncle Genius”, he demands.

“Yes, Uncle Genius”, she parrots, voice sleepy and drawling.

Jeremy chuckles deeply, tipping his head over slightly so he could kiss the top of Willow’s head, affection in his eyes, for her, for James, for this entire wonderful twist of situation. He’s rubbing circles on her back, gently murmuring nonsensical phrases, encouraging sleep to wash over her and willing to see those eyes lively again. Not stressed over something she shouldn’t have been stressing over in the first place.

He notes a small piece of paper Willow is tiredly fiddling with. “What’s that you have?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing… s’mething weird”, she slurs, almost gone. “’Ncle James’ finger tapping. They were numbers… So I turned them into letters. Doesn’t make sense…”

Jeremy carefully tugs reading glasses from the pocket of his shirt trying to move as little as possible and gently taking the paper from Willow’s slack fingers, reading out three words written in rough scribbling handwriting, uncaring of calligraphic neatness.

**UPPER AMBER LULL**

He is about to frown at it and mumble commentary about useless codes in combination with James May’s idiocy when some dyslexic gene from his ancestry makes him go completely still, dip his head and re-read the word three, four, five, ten, seventeen times.

He reaches for the pencil in Willow’s fingers and writes hurriedly with the paper on his knee. There are unwanted results which he frustratingly crosses out several times before the answer is finally here, squeezed into the last available space on the paper.

The facts line up clearly like all planets in the entire fucking Solar System and everything clicks into place. Everything comes perfectly to a conclusion. All answers are here, right here, in this claustrophobic space Jeremy’s just used up.

His stomach drops and he swallows the sick that comes erupting up his throat. All relief is replaced with renewed tension, this one of an entirely different calibre.

James May is not an idiot.

James May is darn clever.

And Willow is a fucking cryptology genius.

Jeremy brushes another soft kiss on the crown of tiny Hammond’s head, now fully asleep, contrary to his now resplendent wide-wakefulness. “Well done, you. Well done…”

* * *

When Richard is back with a suspicious bulge under his jacket, not looking subtle at all, what with an obviously guilty look in his eyes, what with quick step, he takes the look of his daughter using his friend as a pillow with endearment and visible relief.

Before he can speak, Jeremy lifts the paper up, now all used up and scribbled on until there was no space left to write on it.

“Your daughter is a better genius than I am”, he whispers, keeping the tone down.

Richard’s eyebrow arches up. “That’s… never been questionable.”

“No, you tiny Birmingham mind. Look. She wrote out an anagram. James was trying to send us a message.”

“What?” Richard takes a step closer, carelessly pulling out the gin bottle and placing it on a plastic chair. He squints and reads the words. “I don’t get it.”

Jeremy is way too jumpy, without his usual snarkiness and pocketed sarcasm and Willow is probably the only reason why he isn’t being physically descriptive in his urgency. “Alright let me help you, balding, early 50s, grey coat, fedora and sunglasses. Ring a bell?”

Jeremy watches the gears turn in Richard’s mind and realization slowly changing the depth in his eyes, the wrinkles around them and the smallest movements of his eyebrows that gradually steam from confusion to terrible conclusion. Jeremy prods this action further.

“Rich, the one who did this to James was standing right in front of us. What do you think will happen now if I ring the Yard? Would you bet your castle they’ll tell me they never sent anyone? Bastard had the plums and the audacity to come dressed as the Yard agent, with that long coat, hat, sunglasses and—”

“— Purple umbrella”, Richard finishes, simultaneously reading the thrice-circled solution from the narrow uncrossed space on the paper.

“He had a purple umbrella.”


End file.
